


The Private Journal of Aaron Burr

by ghostburr



Category: Amrev - Fandom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-06
Updated: 2016-03-06
Packaged: 2018-05-25 02:56:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6177406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostburr/pseuds/ghostburr





	The Private Journal of Aaron Burr

**May 19th, 1811**. Last night I read a pretty little book (four volumes, octavo, you would like to know) comparing Lucifer to an attorney, and I knew you would like that comparison. I can see you smile at it, sharp teeth, hiding behind a slim glass of expensive Madeira. You shouldn’t have spent that money; you always spend too much, and if your wife knew—I can’t bear to finish that thought. Now let us return to the analogy at hand, our Satanic attorney, the lawyer who was brave, or should I say “foolhardy”, enough to argue with God and be cast out. You will agree with me, when I see you next, that this comparison is lacking in depth. “Lucifer is not noble enough to be a lawyer.” You are self-centered, again! 

You, hussy, will wonder why I have switched recipients, that is, if I am brave enough to let this mindless scrawl reach your brilliant head. I have half a mind to burn it, as in the case of those awful, embarrassing ladies’ letters I entrusted to you (which Gampy has no doubt poured through, giggling, given his particular genius). I shall think on it, finish this bottle of Roussillon, and when I am cloudy enough to make good judgments I shall let you know. For now, hush, mind your own business! And let this poor old man finish his reverie. 

These past few months have been harder than expected; the temperature on the thermometer reads just above twenty-degrees Fahrenheit; winter comes early and stays too long, you would say. I will counter with the fact that our birthdays are in winter, and won’t you please sit down, Sir, and have another drink with me. I do enjoy the way the wine goes right to your cheeks, I do also enjoy your sharp mouth. To-day I met with LS, a tongue as vicious as yours but no where near as pretty, and I was reminded of the argument we encountered the night you made me stay up til dawn rewriting my own thoughts until they matched yours; you laughed when I called you a puppet-master, thought I was insulting GW, again. I haven’t the slightest idea where this candle came from, but it is nearly burnt to the wick and I haven’t a single sous left for another one. 

Half-past two and look! I have not said a single meaningful thing. I am slowly, very slowly, you see, wearing out, like this candle, and all I can do is compare myself to inanimate things. Recall, if you will, an October night, the year is immaterial (do not scoff) in a cold tavern, where the music is so loud you cannot hear yourself think. I am there, too. You raise yourself up onto a chair and you sing along with the dirge. I will, of course, never see the Grace of Heaven, as you always knew, and that was your way of flaunting this fact. You are so bossy. I pray for you nightly. 

Time does not heal all wounds, but it does, curiously, change landmark names from _____ to _____, a frightful spectre. There is a natural balance to this world in everything but myself (this drivel has turned dangerously introspective, T., press on) and I do often wonder if my finger slipped, if the sunlight was too much in your eyes, if the glistening river bent just at the perfect angle, to make your body arch just so, as to make you pivot on your heel like a dancer and fall. There was a slight ringing in my ears, perhaps that sort of thing comes with the infirmities of age. Do you recall—nonsense, you must recall!—the sculpture of Death, bending down to kiss a pretty youth. Was that resignation or ecstasy? You will laugh again, inch closer, “They are one and the same.” I will misread you, as is my talent (my wandering hand; your shuddering gasp) and you will call me “dandy”.

I have not written in two months because I have little to say. My days drag on, the mundane persists. What incoherent idiocy from a fine former statesman. Notice the qualifier. You contemptible hypocrite. 

Ju. has just entered with questions; she cares too much for me. “ _Dormez-vous, Monsieur?_ ” “ _Non, les fantômes._ ” She nods, sweet, simple soul, she understands and is used to this sort of nighttime indiscretion. As are you. Did I get the French right? You will correct my pronunciation with your tongue. “What a fatal interruption to a fine poetic sentence.” Impious choice of words from an impious mouth; another wicked grin. I will use this phrase too much, you see. Do you recall how eagerly I enjoyed your rhetoric?  Muse at a cost I cannot yet fathom.

Alas! I must go now, the candle is burning low and my poor old eyes cannot bear to read another word. I fear I see the beginnings of a disappointed sunrise.


End file.
